


Heal What Has Been Hurt

by VJR22_6



Series: teamuncleweek2020 [2]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Gen, teamuncleweek2020, the prompt was baking/cooking, this one is post-casefiles of agent 22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27213889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VJR22_6/pseuds/VJR22_6
Summary: If Donald Duck is good at anything, it's damage control. Whether that's tending to the kids in his sister's absence, or making the kids' breakfast and cleaning up the place while Beakley recovers from her Black Heron ordeal, he's got it covered. Fixing the rift between himself and Scrooge, though, is not something he can do on his own.
Relationships: Bentina Beakley & Donald Duck, Donald Duck & Scrooge McDuck, Donald Duck & Webby Vanderquack
Series: teamuncleweek2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985648
Comments: 2
Kudos: 95





	Heal What Has Been Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again!!! Thank you for the overwhelming love on yesterday's piece, I care you all so very much. I hope you all like this one just as much. If you do, please leave me a comment!
> 
> The title here as you can probably guess is from the healing song from Tangled.

Donald had barely broken his way out of the pantry, and was sitting on the (rather messy) kitchen floor, catching his breath, when the others got home. Webby came barreling through the front door, talking faster than any of them could listen, and Scrooge, though obviously weary, was entertaining her with the occasional nod and affirmative hum.

His uncle’s feathers were mildly dirty with ash, and there was a smell of smoke radiating off the whole group that sunk into the furniture as they settled down in the dining room. Mrs. B looked the worst, as if she hadn’t slept in days and was about a minute and a half away from collapse.

Of course, she’d never rest until she was sure the kids would be alright.

Donald could understand that. How many nights had he spent sleepless, caring for the kids when they were sick or he was worried about them? He looked at Webby, whose feathers are dotted with band-aids over fresh wounds, and took charge in the one way he knows how. Nurturing.

He made a cup of tea for Beakley, too wound up to sleep, then helped his uncle up the stairs, where Scrooge retired to his bedroom for the night, clutching an ice pack to his aching back. Once that was settled he got Webby off to sleep in the corner of the couch, bundled up in a comfy blanket. He turned the triplets’ TV down low, and tucked each of them under a blanket too, knowing they’d pass out sooner than later.

It was Black Heron, Beakley revealed as he rejoined her in the dining room. A kidnapping and revenge plot that endangered them all. Especially little Webby, whether she realized it or not.

Donald didn’t say that he thinks Beakley was the one in most danger here.

He just sat up with her until the adrenaline and worries wore off enough for rest, and promised her that he’d take care of the kids come sunrise. He’d been doing it for years on the houseboat, after all, what’s one more kid to set a place for at the table?

It’s this that leads him to sweeping up glass at five am, quietly pouring a dustpan of shiny shards into the trash can. He only knows some of the Black Heron and FOWL story, and he’s long since decided it’s best not to ask. He doesn’t need to get tangled up in plots of espionage or larceny. He has plenty to keep him busy.

Like cleaning up the post-kidnapping mess, and then making something for the kids to eat.

The window’s almost completely gone. Someone—Scrooge, he assumes—has pulled the curtains over the hole where it used to be, and they’re dancing in the early morning breeze. The room is quite cold, but when the sun rises it’ll get warmer, he assumes. He ignores it in favor of tending to the aspects of this crisis that he _can_ control, like cleaning out the sink.

There’s a fair amount of broken glass among the dishes, and he carefully picks it out and tosses it away. The metal framing that once separated the window into neat, even diamonds is also shattered and scattered here, and he clears that away too. He refuses to think about the level of strength it took to smash through all of that.

The dishwasher was left open, and though the dishes are pre-washed, the load hasn’t been run, so he fills the few spaces left in it and starts it up. The sink is still piled full, betraying Beakley’s absence, and he knows there’s a fair number more left in the living room with the kids. He quietly vows to have them done before she gets up, lest she feels like she’s got to catch up or anything. He thinks of the weariness and worry in her eyes and knows that whether she wants to or not, she needs to take a break and re-center herself.

Donald was rarely given a break raising the triplets, up until the day Scrooge took them in. It’s only fair he take care of Webby and the housekeeping for a day or two, in a sort of exchange. And, though they’ve never truly admitted it aloud, Webby and Beakley are family as much as he and the boys are.

So he gets to work.

There’s dish soap and a broken plate by the fridge, a broken bowl on the counter, and across the room there’s a small table that’s been overturned, tablecloth discarded beside it. He neatens those up and pauses for a moment to look out the window, where he spots a silver dish lying in the grass. It’s hardly light enough to see, but with the help of his phone’s flashlight, he retrieves it, half-heartedly wondering how it ended up out there.

He dries the dishes in the dishwasher, then reloads it, and pauses for a moment to check in on the kids. They’re all resting now, curled up together happily resting. It’s heartwarming, seeing them so at peace. Donald silently wishes that things could stay this way for a long while.

He makes his way back to the kitchen, and gazes over the ingredients in the fridge and pantry. Not much—they'll need to get groceries pretty soon—but there’s enough to make eggs and pancakes. He can work with that.

He starts setting out ingredients and empty dishes, and turns on the stove as the sun begins to rise. He sprays some cooking spray into a frying pan, reaching for the eggs, and Uncle Scrooge comes in, cane clicking against the floor with every step.

“Oh—er, good morning, Donald,” he murmurs, pulling a counter stool out to take a seat. “Up a bit early this morning, aren’t ye?”

“Never went to bed,” he answers truthfully, not willing to meet his eyes. “Mrs. B needs a break, so I’m helping out.”

“That she does,” he laughs a little. “Stubborn woman. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it, though.”

He just shrugs. The air between them is still tense with… well. With everything. Repairing their relationship has been a slow process, despite the time they’ve spent trying. It’s just hard for both of them to bring up the real issue, for Donald that Scrooge lost his sister to the stars and for Scrooge that Donald took the triplets away for the first decade of their lives as a result.

“Pass me the salt please, Unca Scrooge.”

Scrooge passes it over, gesturing to the tea kettle. “Don’t suppose ye would be willing to boil me some water for my morning tea while you’re at it?”

“Sure,” he replies, and adds a little salt to the pan full of eggs. He fills the kettle and turns the burner on, then reaches for an empty bowl.

“Pass me the flour, I’m making pancakes too—that’s sugar. Thank you,” he huffs a little with suppressed laughter. Scrooge messes up things like that on purpose, or at least he used to, and it warms Donald’s heart a little to know that energy isn’t totally gone these days.

They can still mess with each other after everything. They’re okay, or at least they’re gonna be.

Donald leans against the counter, adding milk before stirring the bowl of batter. “How’s your back?”

“Ach, it’s been better,” he laments. “Nothing I can’t handle, though. Price of an adventure these days.”

“Sounds like you had fun.”

“We did, we did.”

A calm silence fills the room. The usual tension is faded, and for once Donald relishes Scrooge’s company. Knowing he went out and almost got himself killed, while Donald was stuck in the pantry… it stings. Stings to know he could’ve helped. Stings to know he could’ve been there, at least, and he wasn’t. Stings to know he could’ve supported them in some way or another and didn’t.

Just like with Della.

He pours the pancake batter into another frying pan, and stirs the scrambled eggs a bit. With his hands busy he dwells less on the negatives and instead focuses on having something warm to put on the table.

Scrooge’s tea finishes, and he pours the old man a cup before the eggs are done.

“Thank you,” he says as he takes the warm teacup. “I, ah… I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, Unca.” Donald replies, knowing what Scrooge wants to say.

 _I appreciate you_.

Later, the kids will come stumbling into the dining room with blurry eyes, yawning and stretching. He and Scrooge will sit with them to eat, and the old man will help them wake up with talk of their next exciting adventure. Then he and the kids will leave Donald to the day’s work of cleaning and chores, and the house will grow quiet with loneliness.

Donald will watch them go, and he knows he doesn’t have to be afraid they’ll get hurt, because they’ll be with Uncle Scrooge, and he doesn’t trust anyone more with the kids.


End file.
